With his last strength he snapped viciously at his foes and
rushed to the linden. My window was open, and he came creeping,
hurrying towards it on the branch over which he had often capered
so lightly in the winter days. Over him clamored the birds,
forgetting all fear of me in their hatred of the nestrobber.

A dozen times he was struck on the way, but at every blow he
clung to the branch with claws and teeth, then staggered on
doggedly, making no defense. His whole thought now was to reach
the window-sill.

At the place where he always jumped he stopped and began to sway,
gripping the bark with his claws, trying to summon strength for
the effort. He knew it was too much, but it was his last hope. At
the instant of his spring a robin swooped in his face; another
caught him a side blow in mid-air, and he fell heavily to the
stones below.--Sic semper tyrannis! yelled the robins, scattering
wildly as I ran down the steps to save him, if it were not too
late.

He died in my hands a moment later, with curious maliciousness
nipping my finger sharply at the last gasp. He was the only
squirrel of the lot who knew how to hide in a line; and never a
one since his day has taken the jump from oak to maple over the
driveway.



THE OL' BEECH PA'TRIDGE